


couldn't wash the echoes out

by openended



Series: Bomb in a Birdcage [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Flashbacks, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Recovery, i promise this has a good ending despite all those not-good tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some demons don’t come from the Fade, and some can never be killed. They find out the hard way that she is the worst person to help him through lyrium withdrawal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	couldn't wash the echoes out

She’s sound asleep when the guards come.

“My lady,” one whispers loudly.

She wakes in an instant. “What’s going on?” She sits up, dragging the sheet with her. She’s clothed, but not decently enough for mixed company. With a snap of her fingers, she lights the candles on her dresser.

The guard keeps his voice low in deference to her sleeping companion. “You wished us to inform you if Commander Cullen -”

“I will be ready in three minutes,” she cuts him off and makes a shooing motion with her fingers.

The guards bow and take their leave.

Ariadne may have trained herself to snap out sleep in a moment’s notice, but Josephine has not. It’s only when the guards shut the door behind them, slightly louder than necessary, that she opens her eyes.

“What is…” she starts, confused and sleepy. She blinks in the silver moonlight.

Ariadne reaches down and gently brushes Josephine’s hair from her face. “Cullen,” she says. “The guards, I asked them to tell me if anything happened.” 

“Go,” Josephine says, and sits up.

“Josie, I…” she begins to apologize - this is the first night they’ve had together in some time.

Josephine shakes her head. “He is your friend, Ari. Go.”

Ariadne smiles and cups Josephine’s cheek. She kisses her forehead and then slips out of bed to find pants, shoes, and a robe. Before she leaves, she twitches her fingers, extinguishing the candles so her lover can fall back asleep.

* * *

“What happened?” She asks the guard - Courtenay, she thinks his name is. She’s not as familiar with Cullen’s personal staff as she is with hers or Josephine’s.

“We believe it a nightmare, Your Worship,” he hurries along behind her. Frost melts beneath her footsteps as they rush across Skyhold’s courtyard. “He was still asleep when we came for you.”

She takes the steps two at a time, but slowly and holds tight to the stone railing. “Thank you,” she says. When they reach the door, she turns. The conflict is plain on his face, even in the dark. She smiles, a bit tightly, but she means it. “You did the right thing. I will make sure he knows you woke me on _my_ orders.”

He relaxes, fractionally, and Ariadne opens the door. Two more guards stand watch in his office. She looks upward to the loft: he’s tossing and turning, and she can’t make out the words of his murmuring, if they’re even words at all. “Leave us,” she orders.

The guards startle, just noticing the Inquisitor in their presence.

“Leave,” she repeats, stronger. “ _Now_.”

They snap to attention and press their hands to their shoulders, and then nearly race each other outside, leaving her alone.

Wind whips through the broken rooftop; the canvas he’s strung up to keep out the snow is no match for mountain gusts. She shakes her head as she climbs the ladder to his sleeping area. All the supplies for his troops, and he keeps none to put a solid roof over his head. She holds the ladder with her right hand and waves her left at the stubby candles on his floor, casting light over the uneven floorboards so she won’t trip as she steps off the final rung.

A strangled moan comes from the bed and she rushes over, nearly stumbling over herself.

With the sheets caught around his legs, Cullen thrashes against the images in his mind. She rests her hand on his arm and shivers: he’s cold and clammy, his skin paler than usual. 

“Cullen,” she whispers, not wanting to startle him awake. She closes her hands into loose fists and holds her breath for half a moment; she exhales and opens her fingers and begins to warm the room. “Cullen,” she says, more firmly this time.

He curls tightly into himself, kicking uselessly at the blankets trapping him, whimpering incoherent protests.

She shakes his shoulder. “Cullen. Wake up.”

He does.

She manages to cast a weak barrier around herself before he roughly shoves her away from him and off the bed. She falls backward to the floor and her hands take the brunt of the impact, scraping against the wood. But then he’s on top of her, pushing her down. 

Adrenaline sparks on her tongue, a nauseating metallic wave, and she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

_Her door opens and she slides deeper under her blankets. Pretending to be asleep has not fooled him before, but if she’s very very still, he might leave her alone tonight._

_She barely hears the door close, but his footsteps bring tears to her eyes._

_Maker, please, not again._

He pins her wrists above her head, fingers digging deep bruises into her skin. She struggles uselessly and his legs, now free of the bed covers, press tight on either side of hers, caging her in. 

_Fighting only makes him angrier, but she does anyway. He’s stronger and bigger, and he subdues her magic so much she can’t even manage a single spark, but she fights._

_He tightens his grip until the pain forces her to still. He holds both wrists with one hand, and pushes her nightgown up with the other. His fingers trail against her thigh and she closes her eyes._

_She prays to every god she knows that this will be over soon._

He stares down at her, clearly not seeing _her_. The candles burn hotter, highlighting the dark shadows under his eyes and sharpening the angles of his face. His lips curl into a wordless snarl. She balls her hands into fists, digging her nails sharply into her palms, anything, _anything_ to stay in the present, here, with him.

She stops struggling, though it takes nearly all her control to stay still. She finds her voice. “Cullen, it’s me. It’s Ariadne. You’re safe.” With a deep breath, she reaches out and gathers her strength, binding it together in her mind; she’ll blast him off her if need be.

Cullen comes back to himself with a blink. His features soften and shoulders relax, but his eyes widen in horror as he realizes the positions they’re in. He scrambles backward, off of her. “ _Maker_ , Ari. I…”

She has splinters in her hands and her shoulders, and her bruised wrists will keep her in Skyhold for at least a week - she’ll need to find a healer before the night’s out - but she can endure the physical pain. The past fades, leaving the forefront of her mind as she slowly sits up and focuses on Cullen. “I’m fine,” she lies. “What about you?”

“I,” he starts, and looks over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he admits.

She stands on unsteady legs and helps him back into the bed. He starts to shake when she steps away, and she sets her warm palm on his arm for a moment before untangling one of the blankets from the foot of the bed. She infuses it with warmth from her fingertips and drapes it around his shoulders. The distraction of fixing his bed, and then pouring him a cup of water from the pitcher on his dresser, gives her enough time to steady her breath and hands before she sits beside him. A whispered word warms the water up above freezing.

“Here,” she says, and offers him the cup. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” she asks as he gulps the water down.

He brushes his thumb against his cracked lips, wiping away stray water drops. “You have enough on your mind without me.”

“Ugh,” she snorts.

“You sound like Cassandra.”

“Good. You seem to listen to _her_.” She turns to face him, and tucks one leg under her. “Cullen,” her voice is softer now, and she waits for him to look at her before she continues. The adrenaline’s beginning to wear off, leaving brutal reality in its wake; her wrists throb, she can feel nearly every splinter stinging her palms, and the past keeps pushing forward, but she shoves it all away for him. “You aren’t just the commander of my troops. You are my _friend_. How bad is it, really?”

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, pushing away damp hair plastered to his forehead. “This was worse than most,” he admits. “And I never deluded myself to thinking this would be easy.” He stares at his hands.

“How bad is it?”

“I can endure it.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

He looks up, abruptly angry. “Why are you here?”

She blinks, startled by the shift. “I ordered your guards to keep watch at night and wake me if anything was wrong. Something was, and they did.”

He opens his mouth, and Ariadne braces herself for another argument. But it doesn’t come. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome.” She gently squeezes his hand, and winces at how much it hurts. Staring into the empty cup, Cullen doesn’t notice. She looks up at the night sky and pushes more warmth into the drafty room. “You should fix your roof.” 

* * *

Josephine wakes when Ariadne returns to bed a few hours before dawn. The candles flicker uncertainly and Josephine pushes up on her elbows, watching her shake as she unties her boots. Everything about Ariadne is unsteady, and when she slips off her robe it crumples to the floor in a heap and Josephine gasps: the bandages on Ariadne’s hands glow orange in the candlelight, and her wrists are dark purple, an angry outline of a handprint grasped around delicate skin.

“Ari,” she whispers in shock.

Ariadne spins around, eyes wide and scared, and she stumbles. She catches herself on the couch, hisses at the pain, and then goes frighteningly still. She slowly raises her head and looks at Josephine. “Help,” she begs, her voice so much smaller than it should be. 

Josephine throws the covers back and scrambles out of bed to her side. She wraps an arm around her waist; even through her nightshirt, Ariadne’s skin is cool. She’s shaking again and leans heavily on Josephine, not letting go of the couch until she’s sure of herself. It’s ten steps to the bed, and she stumbles on four of them.

When they finally make it to the bed, Ariadne quickly crawls backward to the middle and hugs her knees to her chest.

Josephine sits on her knees in front of her. “What happened? Ari, did Cullen do this to you?” Anger cuts into her voice. Lyrium withdrawal hasn’t been the easiest for Cullen, but she’d thought he had enough control left not to hurt one of his dearest friends.

She shakes her head. “Not Cullen. Well, yes. He did this, but not,” she presses her bandaged hands into her eyes. “Cullen’s safe. Not Cullen,” she repeats, softer, entirely to herself, no longer even seeing Josephine beside her. “Two, three, _and_ four. You heard them ring, Ari.” She tangles her fingers into her hair and pulls. “He’s dead, you’re safe. You’re safe, he’s dead.” The disjointed words tumble out of her mouth and her whispered panicked mantra pitches upward into hysteria, and Josephine’s worry escalates with it.

“Ariadne,” she says, after taking a few breaths to steady her voice.

She drops her hands and her eyes flash open, wild until they find Josephine in front of her. “Shit. Shit, you don’t know.” She bites her lip, reopening a fresh wound. “Josie, I’m _sorry_.” Tears spill over onto her cheeks as her focus slips and pulls her elsewhere.

Though confused and frightened, Josephine steels her nerves and takes Ariadne’s hands in hers. Mindful of the bandages, she gently weaves their fingers together. “Ariadne, you are safe,” she says. “You are at Skyhold, in your room, with Josephine.” She repeats herself once, twice, three times, and then feels Ariadne’s fingers curl, ever so slightly, against hers.

Ariadne blinks slowly. Her breath hitches, but when she looks up at Josephine, her eyes are clear, focused again. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Josephine nods and carefully draws her close and into a hug. Ariadne comes willingly and tucks against her, resting her head on her shoulder. Josephine rubs gentle circles into her back, moving away from her shoulders when she feels bandages there, too. She exhales slowly; her questions can wait until morning.

* * *

After Sera calls her on the lie, Ariadne doesn’t bother lying to the others. They’re staying in Skyhold a bit longer because she’s injured and can’t use her staff; though she doesn’t need her staff for her magic, it certainly helps, and without it to aid her balance on uneven paths she’d risk falling and hurting herself even more.

Bull isn’t the only one to offer violence on her behalf, but he is the only one to be specific in his offer. She laughs and politely declines - Cullen definitely needs that particular part of his body - but takes Bull’s hand in her two smaller ones and squeezes gently before she leaves the tavern. He’s taken more than one hit for her in battle, and she doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’d do the same for her here.

She wears long sleeves to cover her wrists when she’s in public, and her inner circle is quite capable of keeping a secret when asked, and so Cullen’s lyrium withdrawal and its effects stays quiet. 

“Ow,” she hisses as Dorian carefully unwraps the bandages from her hand. It would hurt less now if she had let him pick the splinters out of her palms three nights ago, but she’d been in no state to linger then; Dorian hadn’t argued, merely applied a salve and bandages and walked her safely back to her quarters.

He pauses and looks at her across the table. “Have you talked to him yet?”

She shakes her head. “Only briefly, over breakfast.” She swallows and tries to keep her hand steady while he examines her palm. They’re alone in the library and the quiet is welcome after a day spent on the throne. “How is he?”

Dorian _hmm_ s softly and picks up the tweezers. Most of the splinters have worked themselves out, but a few remain stubbornly stuck in her skin. “Running himself ragged, naturally. I don’t think he’s slept more than an hour since. He is worried about you.”

“I’m okay,” she says, though she doesn’t quite believe it.

“He told me what happened, at the Circle.”

She clenches her teeth. “I am going to _kill_ him. Forget lyrium, I’ll do it myself.”

“Don’t be angry with Cullen, love, I pushed him for it.” He looks up from her hand. Others wither under that glare of hers, but he knows there’s no bite behind it, not when it’s directed at friends. He puts the tweezers aside for a moment and gently takes her hand in both of his. “You were not yourself when you came to me for help that night, I doubt you were even _here_ when you came. I was...concerned.”

Ariadne rubs her forehead with the back of her free hand. “That happens sometimes,” she admits, barely above a whisper. “If I’m reminded enough, I go back there.”

He silently returns to work. When he pulls out the last splinter, he wraps her hand again with a fresh poultice and bandage. He motions for her to give him her other hand. He can’t do anything for her wrists, those will have to heal on their own, but at least he can give some relief to her hands and shoulders. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

She nods and distracts herself by creating a spark and making it dance through the air. 

“Have you told Josephine?”

The spark falls to the floor and explodes. She quickly steps on it before it can set the floorboards smoldering. “I don’t know how.”

He finishes with her hand and gestures for her to remove her tunic so he can look at her shoulders. He walks around the table to stand behind her. “I am sure the Seekers and Templars did not bury this secret well enough that our dear ambassador couldn’t find it, if she was worried enough,” he says. He gently pushes her loose braid across her shoulder, out of the way, and casts a soft glow with his hands so he can better see in the dim library light.

 _And she is worried enough_ remains unspoken.

“Could we please talk about something else?” She closes her eyes and concentrates on breathing slowly. She should tell Josephine - she _has_ to tell Josephine, the terrified look in Josephine’s eyes has haunted Ariadne since that night - but talking about it sends her heart pounding nearly as quick as remembering.

“Of course,” he says, and begins another story of Tevinter, this one with a fortuneteller and a goat.

* * *

Cullen feels Dorian’s eyes following him as he paces across his office. Flopped into a chair, one leg crossed over the other, his arm loose across the back of the chair, he waits as Cullen nearly wears a trench into the floorboards. 

“She doesn’t blame you,” Dorian says, filling the silence. 

Cullen nearly misses a step. “That’s…” he sighs. “A relief.” It does not alleviate his worry for her - the glare Josephine leveled at him across the war table the next morning had left him reconsidering his belief that Leliana was the more dangerous of the two - but something within him settles. He may have badly hurt her, but he’s not lost his friend.

Dorian drums his fingers against the chair. His pacing is driving Dorian mad, Cullen can tell. But if he stops pacing, then he stands still. And if he stands still, then what little courage he has might vanish. And though this feeling between them is new and strange and he isn’t quite sure what to do with it, and though the memories hurt and scratch at his skin, he finds himself _wanting_ to tell Dorian. 

“You asked what happened at Ferelden’s Circle.”

Dorian’s posture immediately shifts; less irritated sass, more concern and interest. 

Cullen stops his pacing to look out the window over the mountains and valley. “It was taken over by abominations.” He leans his arm against the stone, unable to look at Dorian while he retells the horror. He’s not told anyone since Ariadne pried it out of him ten years ago. “The Templars - my _friends_ \- were slaughtered.”

The chair scrapes against the stone floor as Dorian rises.

“I was tortured.” He hears his own voice grow distant and he grips the stone corner of the window.

_Uldred’s hands rough on his skin, the rusty tang of blood in the air. Icy tendrils creep up his arms, shooting pain deep into his bones as the cold crawls through him._

_The unearthly screaming grows louder, no longer a far-off noise but immediately here on top of him, nearly worse than the frigid chill tightening at the base of his spine. His throat burns._

_Laughter mixes with the screaming, crazed and manic, and the ice shatters into razor-sharp shards of glass, scraping down the inside of his skull. Darkness melts into the edges of his vision as the shards catch fire. The laughter boils up around him, surrounding him, drowning out the white-hot scream._

_He will not falter._

_Oily black fingers twist and tease with his mind, but he must not falter._

Dorian stands next to him, close but with space between them. Cullen holds still and doesn’t look up from the light snow falling outside.

“They tried to break my mind and I -” He abruptly stops. His memory has always blocked him from remembering how he managed to resist. “How can you be the same person after that?” His voice drops to barely a whisper.

“You can’t,” Dorian says, serious.

Cullen sags against the wall and closes his eyes. “I’ve spent a decade trying to remember who I was before, to be that man again.”

Dorian gently rests his palm against Cullen’s lower back and steps closer, nearly pressing himself between Cullen and the wall. “You should stop trying.”

He opens his eyes and finally looks at Dorian. He holds his gaze for a brief moment and then looks away. “For years the anger blinded me. I’m not proud of the man that made me.”

With only a slight pressure of his hand, Dorian draws Cullen in. He slides his back against the wall and waits in silence for Cullen to stop staring at the snow and look at him again. “I like the man you’ve become.”

Cullen exhales, a small puff of air, but Dorian’s words bring a quiet smile to his face. He’s not smiled in a long time, not really, and he ducks his head and leans in, seeking out Dorian’s lips. Dorian’s hands settle on his hips and tug him close and Cullen feels gentle warmth begin to spread throughout his veins - warmth that’s unlike Ariadne’s, still as close and comforting, but like sleeping under a pile of blankets in the dead of winter. This warmth comes from somewhere inside him, and is intent to last.

They’re interrupted by a runner with a note from Leliana. Flustered, Cullen pulls away. 

Dorian brushes his thumb against Cullen’s swollen lips and smirks. He slips out from under Cullen’s arm. “You know where to find me.”

* * *

“You sure about this, Boss?” Bull slices his practice axe through the air, warming up his muscles.

Ariadne nods and finishes wrapping her wrists and hands with the supportive leathers she uses in combat. “Corypheus is still out there; we can’t stay in Skyhold waiting for me forever. And I’d rather test if I can make it through a fight when my life isn’t actually in danger.” She flexes her right palm experimentally and rolls her wrist. Pain, but dull and stiff. She shrugs: she can work through that.

Gripping the edges of her tunic, she pulls it over her head and discards it on the bench beside the weapon rack. The cold air doesn’t bother her much, and with the tunic on she’ll be overly warm in a matter of minutes; outside of Skyhold she wears armor infused with cooling materials, but for practice - her breastband and leggings will suffice. She cracks her neck and stands and take the staff from where it leans against the castle wall. It isn’t her usual staff, beautiful masterwork carefully crafted with Dagna’s help, but a basic acolyte staff with approximately the same balance. She has no desire to send her favorite warrior completely up in flames.

“Ready?”

“Only if you are,” she smirks. 

He charges and she sidesteps, brings her staff up under his axe to offset his balance. He turns into it, drops his axe to pin her staff between the axe’s curved blade and grip, and twists his hands, yanking on her staff. 

Gripping her staff against his pull sends waves of dull pain up her wrists and arms, so she drops it and taps her fingers in the air, opening the Veil just enough to cloak it around her. 

“Shit,” Bull curses. He stares into the space Ariadne used to occupy and tries to find a shimmer, any trace of her in the sunlight that could tell him where she’s going to attack from.

She grins and taps him on the shoulder with her spirit blade, uncloaking behind him. She drops to a crouch, avoiding his blindly-targeted blow, and grabs her staff again. Her brief seconds cloaked gave her enough time to pool her energy and she blasts it out of her mind, sending Bull staggering backward. 

She stumbles suddenly, crying out as Bull stands and walks over to her, smug. “You _ass_ ,” she grits her teeth and casts a barrier around her against his ring of pain. The barrier doesn’t make the pain go away, but keeps it from getting worse.

“You turned invisible,” he counters. He lashes out with a quick pommel strike.

The strike lands hard on her exposed flank and she doubles over. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him lift his axe for another slash.

She steps backward and whirls her staff upward as she stands upright, catching the strike with a two-handed block. He pushes against her and her wrists throb angrily as the aching thud in her side grows worse. Her barrier falls and the pain returns, her skin feeling like it’s being shredded off of her.

“Come on, Inky!” Sera encourages from the side. She’s soon joined by Varric and Blackwall in a loud chorus of cheers.

There’s no way she wins this if she stands still: she cannot beat the Iron Bull in a battle of strength. 

So she doesn’t try.

She drops her staff and steps into the Fade. Careful not to stay too long or stray too far, she walks through Bull stumbling forward, and reappears in the world. Before he can turn and find her again, she throws a disruption field around him, slowing his movements enough that she can run outside of the pain and regroup. She picks up her staff.

“I _hate_ this one,” he grumbles, teeth chattering.

“Well done, my dear,” Vivienne applauds quietly from the side.

Ariadne looks around - not only are nearly all of her inner circle gathered to watch, but they’ve drawn a rather large crowd of others. Josephine smiles and waves quietly at her from behind Cassandra. She returns the smile. 

She doesn’t have much time to dwell on Cullen’s conspicuous absence, for Cassandra points behind her toward the practice area: the disruption field’s worn off, and Bull’s moving freely again.

She casts resurgence and another barrier on herself, healing the damage he’s dealt and protecting her from more. He charges with a war cry, but she’s ready for it and catches him in the stomach with her staff and a solid _thwack_. The impact shudders up her staff and through her arms, but she holds her position and steps in closer to him. His axe is useless at this range and though she feels the sharp tearing return and rip into her muscles, her barrier holds.

He drops his axe and grabs her arms and twists them behind her back, forcing her to let go of her staff. Pain shoots through her shoulders as he presses harder, but she grins.

With a roar, she blasts her barrier and all of her magic reserves outward in a rippling wave of heat. Bull staggers backward and releases his grip, nearly flying off the ground. Scorching hot wind swirls around her as she walks over to him, spirit blade in hand. She gently rests the tip of the blade on his throat.

“I yield,” he says. 

Ariadne reaches her hand out and helps him up as the crowd applauds.

“How’d that go?” he asks quietly. He holds onto her longer than strictly necessary, letting her use him to find her balance again after the fight.

She stretches her neck to one side, then the other. “I think a few more days, and we’ll be okay to travel. Thank you.”

He nods. “You got it. Need any…” he catches sight of Josephine walking over to them. “Nevermind. See you later, Boss.”

She waves at him and picks her tunic up off the bench. “Hello,” she smiles at Josephine and kisses her cheek.

Josephine returns the kiss and helps Ariadne slip the tunic over her head; she sets her arm around Ariadne’s waist, giving her something solid to lean on as they walk back to the main tower. “Some days I wish I could go with you when you leave Skyhold,” she admits. “But I do not think I could stand to see you fight like that every day.”

Ariadne smiles and briefly leans her head on Josephine’s shoulder. “Better you stay here,” she says, “who else will greet me with a kiss when I return?”

Josephine giggles, and tightens her arm in a sideways hug.

“Cullen is softer, but demons asked questions that hurt him.”

Ariadne stops. She hadn’t even seen Cole in the crowd. “What?”

“The Templars. They want to protect. Take Cullen. The good ones remember - that mages _are_ people.” He looks up from under his hat in the shadows and holds her gaze, unblinking.

She stares at her hands.

“Have you spoken with him?” Josephine asks softly, echoing Dorian’s concerns.

She shakes her head. “No. Not yet.” She looks back to Cole, but he’s disappeared. With a sigh, she turns to look over her shoulder, upward at the ramparts to the other tower. A familiar head of blonde hair glints above a fur mantle. She waves hesitantly.

From the battlements outside his office, Cullen watches the crowd disperse. Ariadne’s always been a competent fighter, capable of far more than anyone assumes given her thin frame and frequent stumbling. He rubs a hand across his throat and swallows. Given how she handled Iron Bull today, she could’ve easily overpowered him that night in his room. 

She’s dropped her hand back to her side before he realizes that she was waving at him. He lifts his hand in return, but she’s already turned, arm wrapped around Josephine, walking back inside.

His head starts to throb, the bright sunlight making his stomach turn. With slouched shoulders, he returns to his office.

* * *

Josephine sighs and settles her back against Ariadne’s chest. The fire crackles and she trails her fingers down Ariadne’s forearm, mindful to keep her touch light as she brushes over the fading bruises on her wrists. Together four months, sleeping beside each other for two, and still being able to touch her freely is a marvel. Ariadne's hands are calloused from years with a staff, but the rest of her is soft.

Ariadne tentatively nuzzles Josephine’s cheek. She inhales carefully and then breathes out slowly. They’re leaving Skyhold for the Emerald Graves tomorrow, but she can’t leave without telling Josephine.

“What is it?” Josephine asks, trying not to sound too demanding. She’s wanted to ask about that night since it happened, but no matter how close they’ve grown - Ariadne does not respond well to pushing.

“I need to tell you what happened at the Circle,” she starts, “and I don’t think I can unless you ask.”

Her voice is calm and clear, but the slight tension to Ariadne’s arms that wasn’t present a moment ago betrays her confidence. Josephine’s known that something happened at her Circle, and that it was bad enough to call in the Seekers, but she’s refrained from asking Ariadne for details out of fear of reopening old wounds. 

Those wounds have reopened anyway. 

She takes a breath and twines her fingers around Ariadne’s. “What happened at the Circle?”

The tension vanishes, replaced by a sag and a bone-deep exhaustion even Josephine can feel.

She rests her forehead against Josephine’s shoulder and closes her eyes for a moment. “There was a Templar who took a liking to me. He did not...take my rejection well. He,” she pauses. It’s been well over ten years, but the words still struggle to come. 

_The Chantry’s bells ring once as he shuts the door behind him, finally leaving, satisfied._

_She turns on her side and pulls her knees to her chest. She swallows hard against her gag reflex. Soon she’ll stand and clean up, but she needs this moment - this still, quiet moment - to come back to herself._

_She blinks, and as the bells ring four times she finds herself staring at the door to the First Enchanter’s bedchamber instead of the stone walls of her room. Frantic, she looks around for any sign of him, more concerned that he’ll find her here than having no recollection of getting dressed and walking up the stairs. But no shadows move, no subtle glint of his sword in the torchlight._

_Three deep, shaky breaths, and she manages to form her hand into a fist and knock. What will come after the knock is explaining why she's standing here, and Ariadne doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to say, doesn't want to think about it, but she's here now, tonight. If she doesn't stay, he'll come back tomorrow and do it again, like he has for the past months._

_The door opens and Cora, half-asleep, looks out. "Ari? What's wrong?"_

_All the air leaves the hallway. Ariadne opens her mouth to speak, and no words come out. The space between her ears roars, loud and overwhelming, and her breaths come shorter. She shakes her head, seeing Cora's mouth move again and hearing nothing. She loses her balance and falls forward, but Cora catches her and brings her inside._

_The bells ring out five, and she begins to cry. Hot tears fall to her cheeks as her body and mind succumb to the violent sobs she's held in every night. The roaring in her ears grows even louder, faster, deafening now, as she tries to remain standing. But her head is as dizzy as it is loud, and waves of darkness crest behind her eyes._

_She grips tight to Cora's shoulders, hoping that if she holds tight enough to someone who's always in control, she might borrow some for herself and this moment. Cora pulls her close, tighter into her warm embrace, and helps her sit down on the bed._

_"You're safe, Ariadne," she hears through the dissonant drumming in her head._

_The tiny wisp of strength that began when she walked out of her quarters grows stronger, curling upward around her spine. Her tears slowly calm, her mind quiets, and her shoulders straighten, and when the wisp reaches the base of her skull, it's quadrupled in size and grips tight to her bones. She lifts her head and looks Cora in the eye, ready to speak._

“Ari?” Josephine says and sits up, half-turning to look over her shoulder at her suddenly-silent partner. “Are you alright?”

“What? Oh,” she sighs in frustration, though at herself. “I’m sorry, I…” she presses a hand to her eyes and takes a deep breath before dropping her hand down to Josephine’s arm. She leans forward and buries her face in Josephine’s curls, breathing in her scent; bergamot and jasmine, with a slight hint of sage, and she breathes carefully, centering herself again.

Josephine covers Ariadne’s hand with hers. She can manage a good guess at the rest of the story - she wishes she couldn’t - but she stays quiet, letting Ariadne finish on her own terms.

She no longer acutely feels what happened, the hurt and fear doesn’t rub her as raw as it used to, but the words are hard and catch in her throat. She swallows. “He forced himself on me,” she says, her voice far stronger than she expected. “More than once. It was...a long time before I finally told someone.” She sniffs and sits up. “I’ve... _dealt_ with him.”

The dark bite in Ariadne’s voice startles her, but Josephine remembers their conversation on the ramparts - 

_“What did you see in the fear demon?”_

_“A man who has been dead a very long time, by my own hand.”_

\- and remains silent. Ariadne nervously rolls a spark across her knuckles: she still has more to tell. Josephine gently squeezes her hand. 

“But sometimes..." she trails off. "I startled Cullen out of his nightmare. I think he believed I was part of his dream and trying to hurt him. He...trapped me on the floor beneath him.” She closes her eyes and takes a shallow, shaky breath and closes her hand around the spark. “And then I was there again. My room in the Circle, with _him_ on top of me.” She exhales, opens her eyes, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry I frightened you when I came back. I should have told you sooner.”

Josephine turns fully, releasing Ariadne’s hands only briefly. The pain in her lover’s eyes is clear, but old and distant, pain she has long learned how to live with. But Ariadne seems like she’s waiting, as though her entire world has paused until Josephine reacts. 

For once, words abandon her. She tentatively reaches out. When Ariadne doesn’t flinch, but instead leans into her touch, Josephine pulls her close, needing to hug, to hold, to _protect_.

* * *

She ducks, narrowly avoiding being hit in the head with whatever Cullen’s thrown. “Well, that’s a box that won’t be bothering us again.” He glowers, and she looks closer at the box: Cullen’s lyrium kit. A joke in poor taste, then, but no point in backing away from it now. She shuts the door behind her. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve asked Cassandra to recommend a replacement.”

“So I’ve heard.” She leans against the door. She isn’t ready to talk to him yet, not about what happened, but his argument with Cassandra requires immediate attention before she leaves.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I assume you’ve also heard that she’s refusing?”

“Yes. And I agree with her.”

He pounds his fist into the desk. “I will _not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.”

Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest. “Cullen, I knew you when you were serving the Chantry. You aren’t giving the Inquisition less, I promise.”

“How?” He stands up straight. “How am I not giving less? I…” There’s a list, the same list he gave Cassandra, but the only item he can remember is also the only one he didn’t share with the Seeker. “I _hurt_ the Inquisitor. You’ve had to remain at Skyhold for two weeks because of what I did to you.” He turns away from her.

“I healed,” she says quietly. “You were waking from a nightmare and didn’t know who I was. I’m okay, Cullen.”

“That’s not...I am glad you’ve healed, but,” he turns, forcing himself to look at her. “Dorian told me that you came to him for help that night. That you were not yourself; he said your mind, that _you_ were somewhere else.”

She looks down at her feet.

“I did that, too,” he whispers. “You were there to help, and I attacked you.” He drops his gaze again.

_Her eyes, wild and scared, look up at him as he looms over her. Frightened tears threaten to spill on her cheeks - she isn't seeing him, she isn't seeing her friend, she's seeing the man who raped her._

_But she's a mage. She's the mage who threatened to kill him - who nearly did kill him - who burned and choked him only weeks after he escaped Ferelden's horrors. She shouldn't be his friend._

_Her wrists are fragile under his tight grip, her hips easily subdued, and he holds her tight against the floor. He should kill her for what she's done to him, what they've all done to him._

_He will kill her._

_"Cullen, it's me," she whispers, unmoving. "It's Ariadne."_

_Her name echoes in his mind, bringing memories of a better life, a safer life. He blinks, and sees Ari underneath him._

_His friend._

“Cullen.”

“Please, Ari. Just...go.”

He only allows himself to move when he hears the door shut behind her.

* * *

_He’d watched her leave the First Enchanter’s office. Fled might be the better word for it: head down, nearly running, robes billowing out behind her. Edward had left Cora’s office shortly afterward, looking only slightly less upset than Ariadne. The Knight-Commander had shut the door behind him, but Cullen imagined Cora didn’t look much happier._

_He looks for her when he’s finally off duty and finds her in the upper floor of the Circle's library, tucked into a window seat. She’s drawn her knees to her chest, looking so much smaller than she is. She stares out the window, watching the practice field below: Storm School today, their lightning and static lighting up the field as the sun dips below the horizon._

_“Are you alright?”_

_She startles, so lost in her own thoughts that she’d not heard him approach. “No,” she says. She tugs her sleeves over her palms and curls further into herself._

_He'd hesitate to call them friends; he’s still sometimes concerned he’ll wake to find her towering over him to finish what she began in the Great Hall, but he likes her well enough and he thinks she probably likes him now; at least, she's stopped declaring that she doesn't, and he's no longer on the receiving end of her glares quite so frequently, and when he is - he knows why. But even if she’s not his friend, even if she’s just the mage he knows better than the rest, she’s upset and deserves to have someone listen. “What happened?”_

_She huffs and looks down at her hands, rubbing her left thumb over her right palm, and then looks up at him, tears in her eyes. “He’s not going to trial.”_

_“What?” His eyes nearly pop out of his skull. A few months ago, she'd finally told him all of what happened. He’d left once he was certain she'd fallen asleep, and spent the rest of the night in the practice grounds, destroying a dummy with his sword._

_“I don’t know, I stopped listening when Edward explained it. He’s going to try to appeal on my behalf but...I don’t think it will work.”_

_“Ari...he deserves to hang, I’m so sorry.” The man should be dead twice over, at least._

_She sniffs. “Cullen, he’s just going to do it again. He’s going to hurt someone else like he hurt me, and I couldn’t stop him,” she breaks down, sobbing into her hands._

_He sits next to her on the bench and sets his arm around her, tugging her to him. She stiffens at first and then falls, leaning against him as she cries. He holds her softly and rubs her back. It’s not okay, and it will not be okay; he doesn’t lie to her and say it is or will be._

_She shakes in his arms, tears soaking the shoulder of his tunic. He cards his fingers through her hair, and tries to breathe steadily, hoping his own breath calms hers._

_It's a long time before she settles - the class outside has retreated in for evening meal, which they long miss - and he suspects that she's held her grief and pain inside since she told Cora over a year and a half ago. She rests her head on his shoulder and simply breathes._

_"I hate him," she whispers. “I want him dead.”_

_She sits up and wipes at her eyes, and the defeat and resignation on her face drives a knife through his heart. The Templars are meant to protect her, and they've failed her twice now._

_He makes her an offer._

* * *

“I didn’t think you’d even eaten today.”

Cullen groans and slowly rolls over to lie on his back, no longer needing the bucket for now. “I hadn’t.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. He’s seen his share of withdrawals, but lyrium seems to be the worst, and the longest. “Come here then,” he casts off his shoes and tucks his legs under him. With a wave of his hand he does away with the acrid stench from the bucket and encourages Cullen to slide closer.

“Not so loud, please,” he whispers hoarsely. He gives in to Dorian’s hints, though he hardly tries to resist, and settles his head in Dorian’s lap. Even through closed eyes, the sun is too bright. He squints.

Dorian rests his fingers against Cullen’s temples. “If you fixed the roof, you would not have that problem.”

“You and Ari both,” Cullen says, her name out of his mouth before he realizes. He misses her, and not just because she’s been gone for three weeks. “So focused on the roof.” He means it teasing, but the pain’s too much and it comes out flat.

He’s no spirit healer, but nor is he useless, and Dorian gently pushes magic out of his fingertips to soothe Cullen’s head. “Well, it certainly isn’t helping matters.” Neither is Cullen's reluctance to speak to Ariadne, but she's away and the roof is the more pressing concern. He bends at his waist, folding himself nearly in half to kiss Cullen’s forehead.

It’s early still, between them, but he lets his lips linger a moment longer on the commander’s skin before he sits up again and continues his work.

Dorian’s fingers are soft and light, and Cullen feels the pain and nausea begin to disappear. There’s so much he wants to say to Dorian - _I’m sorry I once hated people like you_ chief among them, _I’m not sure I would have cared about you, and that thought sickens me_ another - but his confessions seem awkward by the bright light of day and so he stays silent. But he reaches up and brushes his fingers across Dorian’s knee.

* * *

“You should talk to him,” Varric says, unleashing a hailstorm of arrows.

Ariadne mentally draws a line in the grass and lifts her hands, pulling a roaring wall of flame upward. “Is _now_ really the best time for this?” The giant barely notices that its left leg is on fire and she exhales in frustration.

“Probably not.” He lowers Bianca for the brief moment it takes to toss a handful of mines onto the ground. “But you should talk to him.” 

She ignores Varric and focuses on setting the giant on fire until it finally falls to its death. Iron Bull and Blackwall raid its pockets, but Ariadne sees the shadow of another coming over the hill. “Make it quick, we’re going to find a way around this.”

“Varric is right,” Blackwall says once they’re out of sight of more giants. “You should speak to Cullen.”

She stops walking. When the three men realize she isn’t with them anymore, they turn around and walk back to her. She glares at them. “Do you have an opinion on this too, Bull?”

“Nope.”

She sighs and rubs her hand over her forehead. “He asked me to leave him alone.” That isn’t strictly true - he hadn’t asked her to do anything, but his tone had been resigned, begging for space. “I appreciate you trying to help, but please - let me deal with Cullen on my own.”

Her request is met with three variations on _of course_. She nods and motions for the group to continue on their way to the next camp site.

Bull sits next to Ariadne at the fire after the sun’s set and dinner’s been put away. “You okay, Boss?”

She looks up at him, flames reflecting off his skin. “Thought you didn’t have an opinion on this.”

“I don’t. I asked if you were okay.”

She sighs and steals two sparks away from the fire, sending them chasing each other across her fingers. “No. He’s my oldest and closest friend and…” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t hate him for what he did, and I think he wants me to. Sometimes I think he forgets that I’ve been living with this for twelve years, I know how to survive it.”

Bull lifts his eyebrow in confusion, but doesn’t press for more. 

She flicks the sparks back into the fire. “I should talk to him.” If she leaves it up to Cullen, they’ll never speak again except as Inquisitor and Commander.

“This sounds like an opinion, but yeah. Probably.”

* * *

“You fixed your roof,” she says in surprise, and then cringes. This isn’t how she planned to start this conversation.

Cullen looks up at her from where he stands, leaning over the maps on his desk, and smiles. “Yes. You and Dorian wore me down.”

“We’re good at that,” she teases. But then the room falls into silence, and she isn’t sure what to say; everything she had planned seems not enough, now. She drops her gaze and looks at the floor.

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I’m sorry for what I did to you,” he says quietly when the awkward silence becomes too much to bear.

_“Did it help?” Cullen asks, certain she’s not yet asleep. He looks beside him. It’s easier traveling if they pretend to be together, and when he’d tried to sleep on the floor and give her the entire bed, she’d scoffed and said he needed a night’s sleep in a bed as much as she did after a week and a half on the ground._

_“Some,” she says. She could lie and tell him it fixed it all, that everything is suddenly perfect and wonderful again. But not only would he see through the lie, she’s too exhausted to not tell the truth. She didn’t go into this thinking that killing him would do anything other than create a temporary salve for her, and prevent him from hurting anyone else. But she had hoped._

_He’s known her long enough now to notice the pain rising in her voice, and know when she can swallow it down or when it threatens to engulf her. He turns onto his side. “Ari.”_

_“I…” she exhales sharply and wipes at her dry cheeks. She stares firmly at the ceiling, intentionally not looking at him. “I don’t regret it. But I thought I’d feel...better.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t change what he did to me. I don’t know why I hoped it would.”_

“No,” she says, looking up from the floor to stare at him, finding her words. “Someone _else_ did that to me. And he is dead. I never should’ve woken you like that.”

He shakes his head and repeats her words back to her. “Someone else did _that_ to me. And _he_ is dead, too.”

With a small sigh, Ariadne pushes off the door and walks across his office to stand in front of him. “We’re not replacing you, Cullen. _I’m_ not replacing you.”

He hesitantly reaches toward her, not wanting to harm her again. But she steps closer into him and he slowly wraps his arms around her, holding her close. He kisses her forehead and then leans his cheek against hers. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into her hair. Maybe he can borrow some of her strength, strength he’s rarely seen falter, and not recently. 

She tightens her embrace and rests her head on his shoulder. “Me too.” She closes her eyes for a moment and just breathes, content to be hugged by her friend and hug him in return. “How are you, really?”

“I think the worst is over.”


End file.
